The Voyage of Bran

In the ancient days when the mists between the worlds were thin and strange visitors might appear at any time, there lived a king named Bran mac Febal, ruler of a small kingdom on the western coast of Ireland. Bran was young and restless, beloved by his people but always gazing westward toward the setting sun, wondering what lay beyond the endless expanse of sea.

One morning, as Bran walked alone near his fortress, lost in thought about the mysteries of the western ocean, he heard the most beautiful music he had ever experienced. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once – sweeter than harps, more melodious than pipes, more enchanting than the voices of the finest singers in Ireland.

As the music played, Bran felt his eyelids growing heavy despite the early hour. The melody wrapped around him like a soft cloak, and he found himself unable to resist its call to sleep. He lay down in the grass beside a hawthorn tree and fell into the deepest slumber he had ever known.

When Bran awakened, the sun was high overhead, and clutched in his hand was a silver branch bearing white flowers unlike any that grew in Ireland. The branch shimmered with its own inner light, and when the wind stirred its blossoms, they chimed together like tiny silver bells.

Bran returned to his hall in wonder, carrying the mysterious branch. That evening, as he feasted with his warriors and nobles, a woman appeared suddenly in their midst. She was beautiful beyond mortal comprehension, dressed in robes that seemed to be woven from mist and starlight. No one had seen her enter, and the guards at the doors swore that no stranger had passed them.

“I am from the Land of Women,” the mysterious visitor announced, her voice like the music of gentle waves, “and I have come to tell you of the wonders that await beyond the western sea.”

Before anyone could respond, she began to sing:

“There is a distant isle, around which sea-horses glisten, A fair course against the white-swelling surge – Four feet uphold it, and they are of white bronze. A lovely land through the age of the world, A broad land with many harbors and rivers.

Through time, through clear weather, a river flows Through the pleasant land of many colors. There are apple-trees in blossom And enchanted trees with crimson fruit. There are honey and wine for drinking, And splendid people without blemish, Conception without sin, without lust.

We see everyone on every side Without their seeing us. It is for this we are called ‘The Land of Women,’ though many think us strange.

Come with me, Bran, across the sea To that delightful land where summer is eternal And winter never comes. Your boat will reach the Island of Joy, Your heart will find its home.”

As the woman sang, the silver branch in Bran’s hand began to glow more brightly, and its flowers chimed in harmony with her voice. When she finished her song, she simply faded away like morning mist, leaving behind only the faint scent of apple blossoms and the echo of otherworldly music.

From that moment, Bran could think of nothing but the voyage she had described. The silver branch seemed to call to him constantly, its music filling his dreams and making his heart restless for adventure. Finally, he could resist no longer.

“I must follow where the branch leads,” he announced to his court. “Who among you will sail with me to find this Land of Women?”

Three groups of nine warriors stepped forward immediately, for they were loyal to their king and ready to follow him anywhere. They spent days preparing for the voyage, gathering provisions and building a coracle large enough to carry all twenty-eight men safely across the ocean.

On the morning of their departure, the people of Bran’s kingdom gathered on the shore to bid them farewell. Many wept, sensing somehow that this was no ordinary voyage and that they might never see their king again.

“Fear not,” Bran called to them as the coracle was pushed into the surf. “We go seeking wonder, and wonder we shall find. When we return, we will bring tales that will be told for a thousand years.”

The coracle caught the western wind and sailed swiftly away from Ireland’s shore. But this was no ordinary sea voyage. Almost immediately, they found themselves in waters unlike any they had ever seen – sometimes crystal clear so that they could see far down to coral palaces on the sea floor, sometimes silver-bright like molten metal, sometimes deep blue-black like the night sky filled with stars.

On the first day, they encountered Manannán mac Lir, the sea god, riding his magical horse across the waves as if they were solid ground. He sang to them as he passed:

“Bran deems it a marvelous beauty In his coracle across the clear sea; While to me in my chariot from afar It is a flowery plain on which he rides.

What is a clear sea For the prowed skiff in which Bran is, That is a happy plain with profusion of flowers To me from the chariot of two wheels.”

The god’s song revealed that what appeared to be empty ocean to mortal eyes was actually a realm filled with hidden wonders visible only to divine sight. This gave Bran hope that they were indeed traveling toward the magical islands the woman had promised.

On the second day, they came to the Island of Joy, exactly as the mysterious woman had foretold. As soon as their coracle touched the shore, they could hear laughter and music coming from every direction. The very air seemed to sparkle with happiness, and everyone who breathed it felt their hearts grow light and carefree.

One of Bran’s warriors, a young man named Nechtan, leaped from the boat onto the beach. The moment his feet touched the sand, he began to laugh with pure delight, and he could not stop. He laughed at the beauty of the sky, at the warmth of the sun, at the song of birds he could not see. He laughed until tears of joy streamed down his face, and when his companions called to him to return to the boat, he could not hear them over the sound of his own laughter.

“We cannot leave him,” said Bran, “but neither can we stay, for I fear that if we all set foot on this island, we will never leave it. The joy here is so pure that it would make us forget all other purposes.”

So they sailed on, leaving poor Nechtan dancing and laughing on the shore of the Island of Joy, lost in eternal happiness but free from all other concerns.

For many more days they sailed, passing islands of wonder and strangeness. There was an island where it was always dawn, with light that never grew brighter or dimmer. There was an island inhabited only by birds that sang in human voices, telling stories of distant lands. There was an island where every tree bore fruit of a different kind, and the fruit that fell to the ground turned into precious gems.

Finally, after what seemed like months of voyaging, they came to a great island larger than any they had yet seen. Its shores were lined with crystal sand, its hills were covered with trees bearing golden apples, and its meadows were filled with flowers that glowed like jewels. Beautiful women came down to the beach to greet them, led by the same mysterious woman who had appeared in Bran’s hall.

“Welcome,” she said, “to the Land of Women, where sorrow is unknown and time has no meaning. Here you may rest from your wanderings and know perfect peace.”

The island was everything the woman had promised and more. The air was always warm but never hot, there was always light but never harsh sun. Rivers of crystal-clear water flowed through gardens where every fruit was perfectly ripe and every flower perfectly bloomed. The women of the island were all beautiful and wise, skilled in every art and knowledgeable about every subject.

For what seemed like a year, Bran and his men lived in paradise. They feasted on foods more delicious than anything they had ever tasted, drank wine that made every worry disappear, and listened to music that made their hearts soar. Each day brought new pleasures, new discoveries, new reasons to be grateful for their good fortune.

But as time passed, some of Bran’s men began to grow restless. They missed their families in Ireland, wondered how their kinfolk were faring, and longed to see familiar faces and familiar places.

“My lord,” said one of his warriors, a man named Diuran, “we have been here a year now, and though this place is wonderful beyond description, I find myself thinking often of home. Might we not return to Ireland for a visit, to see our loved ones and tell them of the marvels we have discovered?”

Bran himself had been feeling the same longing, though he had been reluctant to voice it. The Land of Women was beautiful, but it was not Ireland. It had peace but not the excitement of mortal life, pleasure but not the satisfaction that comes from overcoming challenges, beauty but not the poignancy that comes from knowing that beautiful things must end.

When Bran told the woman of their desire to return home, her face grew sad. “You may leave if you wish,” she said, “but I warn you – time flows differently here than in your world. What seems like a year to you has been many years in Ireland. If you return, you will find that everything you knew has changed.”

“How many years?” asked Bran.

The woman shook her head. “I cannot say exactly. Time is like a river here – sometimes it flows fast, sometimes slow, sometimes it seems to stop altogether. But I fear you will not find the Ireland you remember.”

Despite her warnings, Bran and his men were determined to return home. They missed their mortal lives too much to be content in paradise. The woman gave them a final warning: “Whatever happens, do not set foot on Irish soil. Stay in your coracle and speak to your people from the water. If any of you touches the land, the weight of all the years you have missed will fall upon you at once.”

The voyage back to Ireland seemed to take only days, though they passed through the same strange waters and saw the same wondrous islands as before. When they finally caught sight of the Irish coast, they shouted with joy – until they came close enough to see that nothing was as they remembered it.

The shoreline had changed, new settlements had grown up where none had been before, and when they hailed the people on the beach, they spoke in a dialect that sounded archaic and strange.

“Who are you?” called one of the fishermen. “What distant land do you come from?”

“I am Bran mac Febal,” the king replied, “returning from the Land of Women. This is my kingdom, and these are my lands.”

The fishermen looked at each other in confusion. Finally, an old man stepped forward. “Bran mac Febal?” he said slowly. “That name I know from the old stories my grandfather’s grandfather used to tell. But that Bran sailed away three hundred years ago and never returned. Are you spirits, or do you speak false names?”

Three hundred years! Bran and his men stared at each other in shock. They had lived for what seemed like a single year in the Land of Women, but three centuries had passed in Ireland. Everyone they had ever known was long dead, their kingdom had passed to distant heirs, and they themselves had become legends.

As the reality of their situation sank in, one of Bran’s warriors, Diuran, could bear it no longer. “Three hundred years!” he cried. “Everyone I loved is dead and buried! What point is there in living as strangers in our own land?”

Before anyone could stop him, Diuran leaped from the coracle onto the beach. The moment his feet touched Irish soil, the weight of all the years he had missed fell upon him. His hair turned white as snow, his face became lined with age, and his body bent with the burden of centuries. Within moments, he crumbled to dust and was blown away by the wind.

The sight of their companion’s fate filled the remaining men with horror and understanding. They could never return to the Ireland they had known, for they belonged to a different age entirely. They were caught between two worlds – too changed by their time in paradise to live as mortals, but too mortal to remain in the otherworld forever.

Bran spoke to the people on the shore, telling them his story and giving them messages to preserve for future generations. Then he and his remaining men sailed away once more, some say to the Land of Women, others to islands even further west, beyond the edge of the world itself.

But before he left, Bran cast the silver branch onto the beach, where it took root and grew into a tree that bloomed year-round with flowers that chimed like bells in the wind. And he spoke these final words:

“Let this tale be a lesson to all who hear it. Paradise may be found, but it comes with a price. Wonder may be discovered, but it changes those who find it. The otherworld offers gifts beyond imagination, but those who accept them may find they can never truly go home again.”

The Voyage of Bran became one of the most beloved of all Irish tales, teaching that the search for wonder and beauty is one of the noblest pursuits of the human heart, but that every choice has consequences, and some journeys change us so completely that we can never return to who we were before.

It reminds us that home is not just a place but a time, not just a location but a collection of people and relationships. And it suggests that perhaps the greatest paradise is not a perfect place where nothing ever changes, but the imperfect world we know, with all its sorrows and joys, its endings and beginnings, its mortality that makes every moment precious.